To Know Him
by Goddess-of-the-Night04
Summary: As it turns out, Sherlock can read everyone but John, and John can read no one but Sherlock.


**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the BBC Sherlock world, I just play in it occasionally. I make no money from this, just pure enjoyment.

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For once, John knows what's happening before Sherlock does. Because as it turns out, Sherlock can read everyone but John, and John can read no one but Sherlock.

John first notices the change in Sherlock when he himself arrives late to a crime scene. Sherlock had texted him on his way to yet another abandoned warehouse (criminals these days; no originality, honestly) telling him to meet him there. What John was going to do to aid the investigation he has no idea, but he was bored at work anyway, so begged off as soon as he could.

When John arrives, he can hear Sherlock's voice reverberating through the large empty space as he approaches the scene at a leisurely pace. Sherlock is saying something about the woman's travels, but as soon as Sherlock sees John enter the room his voice falters, though he tries to cover it as quickly as possible. A trifle unsuccessfully.

"Uhh…she, um…" Sherlock turns resolutely from John with a confused look on his face, "Came here from Edinburgh to visit her sister. She…ummm…" Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it of the presence creating a fog there.

John's brow furrows in concerned confusion and he gives Greg a look, clearly asking if he's been fumbling with his words for long. Greg merely shrugs back at him with a small shake of his head, equally confused.

Sherlock exhales roughly through his nose in aggravation before closing his eyes to regain his train of thought that he never should have lost in the first place.

"She was waylaid by a…phone call," Sherlock says a bit distractedly.

"Sherlock? You alright, there?" John calls to him.

"Shut _up_ , John, I'm fine."

"You don't _seem_ fine."

Sherlock glares at him, "A phone call from her boyfriend. She never saw the killer sneaking up behind her," he says, not looking from John's eyes as he glares at him challengingly, "he chloroformed her, brought her here, raped her, and then slit her throat."

"Wha…?" Greg starts to ask, but Sherlock is already moving angrily towards the exit without another word.

John looks at Greg with one eyebrow raised in surprise before habitually apologizing for the younger man and following after him.

Sherlock is confused, upset that John appears to have been a distraction. John has _never_ been a distraction, so why would he be now?

John is also confused that Sherlock appeared to be distracted, left with similar questions of why now.

The cab ride home transpires in absolute silence.

The next occurrence that peaks John's curiosity happens at home a few days later. He's reading an article online as Sherlock works on some experiment in the kitchen quietly. You know, a normal evening in 221B, if such a thing exists.

John gets up to make some tea for himself, but is pulled from his calm reverie as Sherlock drops a handful of slides to the floor as John enters the room.

"Jesus, Sherlock, are you alright?" John asks, quickly assessing the scene to make sure that the other man wasn't injured, and is relieved to see that he wasn't.

Sherlock is glaring at the mess, then turns it on to John before replying, "I'm wonderful," with a sarcastic bite.

He leans down to the floor to begin picking up the glass, but John only tuts in aggravation as he moves to the closet to grab the broom and dust bin.

"Here," John says gently, moving the broom in to Sherlock's space to make him back away from it so he can clean the slides up safely.

Sherlock rises from his crouch and sits back in his chair, watching John with a frown of confusion on his face. Second case of odd behavior within a few days, both when John has entered the immediate vicinity. What does that mean?

Does it mean anything at all?

John finishes sweeping the pieces in to the dust bin and then throws them in the trash, replacing the tools in the closet.

"Thank you," Sherlock says when the older man reenters the kitchen.

John raises an eyebrow in shock, leaning against the door frame, "What's gotten in to you lately?"

Sherlock blushes and turns angrily back to his microscope, "Nothing."

John sighs, "You're not usually so careless. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, John, I'm fine," he stresses, still not looking up.

John gives him a sad, disbelieving look that the younger man does not see before he moves to make his tea - his original reason for entering the room - leaving him alone in peace.

The following Friday, John goes out to the pub with Mike Stamford. Mike's wife is threatening to leave him again, and he asks John to come out with him so he doesn't have to drink alone.

John listens intently to Mike through two beers, happy to let him vent but even more happy that he's no longer got these types of marriage issues himself. All he has is Sherlock, and that's a surprisingly easy arrangement now that they've got things mostly figured out.

Not that they're a couple, mind you.

The bartender takes it upon himself to bring them a third round without having even asked them. John wasn't really planning on having more, three about being his line between Pleasantly Buzzed and Hangover Imminent these days. God, sometimes getting old _really_ sucked.

"I wasn't actually planning on having another," John tells the bartender with a pointed look.

"He means 'Thank you'," Mike clarifies to the offended stranger, pulling both pints closer to themselves.

John's mouth falls open in shock, his shoulders falling as the man walks away and he turns to Mike earnestly, "Jesus Christ, am _I_ the Sherlock?"

Mike shrugs with a hint of a smile, "When he's not around? You assume the role well."

John rubs his face with his left hand and mutters, "Buggering bloody hell," to himself, then turns his attention back to Mike, "Why hasn't anyone _told_ me?"

Mike shrugs again, "You've always been like that, he just cares less than you do," he pauses to burp quietly and take the first drink of the new pint before continuing, "I think you see your own faults in him and change your actions accordingly for the better - thanks for that, by the way - but when he's not there to mirror them?" and here he laughs genuinely and his eyes alight with mirth, "You two are _incredibly_ alike; it's how I knew you'd work as flatmates in the first place."

John wants to say something to that, but Mike moves back to his wife problems before he even has a chance to. John stops listening as he gets lost in his own thoughts about himself and Sherlock. Were they really so similar?

Yes, they both seemed to be changed by the establishment of their friendship. Yes, they both rather hate social situations and conventions. Yes, they both tend to default to judgmental stares and sassy retorts.

 _But_

The real difference - in John's humble opinion - comes in the form of empathy. John _cares_ about people; it's always been in his nature to do so. And Sherlock? John's not certain he's ever had more than a handful of kind thoughts about _anyone_.

John's stomach twists as he automatically amends the statement mere seconds after thinking it. That's really not true at all, is it? He likes Greg (in his own way), he's admitted that to John. And he pretends that his parents are impositions and nuisances, but he clearly holds them in a high regard. And he can barely disguise his adoration for Mrs. Hudson, no matter what he may say. And then there's John, isn't there? Even John has noticed the changes that Sherlock has made since he's come in to the picture.

And that's when it hits him. The stuttering, the clumsiness; John has seen the signs in countless women his entire life, but he never thought…surely that can't be right. Could Sherlock be… _interested_ in him? Romantically?

The thought literally takes his breath away as it feels like a physical punch to his gut. There is no possible way two grown ass men - one of them who would consider a Mensa invitation to be an insult to his intelligence, and the other a doctor - have romantic feelings for each other and haven't noticed. Is there?

Sherlock sits on the couch while John is at the pub with Mike, uncertain how exactly he's come to be watching what appears to be a Romantic Comedy on the television, or why he can't bring himself to turn the channel. He's been shouting abuse at the characters nearly the entire time, but now he's silent, watching intently as the main character realizes that he's been in love with his best friend the entire time.

And that's when it hits him, like a punch to his gut. If this movie depicts love accurately…then…his rapid heart rate whenever John is near, his constant awareness of John's location in relation to himself, the awkward clumsiness/stuttering over the past week or so, all leads to one impossible conclusion.

Well, not _impossible_ , merely improbable. And as his mother used to say about the improbable: as long as the facts are sound, it must be true.

Bloody hell.

Sherlock and John don't talk about their revelations, because that would be far too simple, not to mention frightening. Instead, they continue about their lives, both trying to ignore that anything has changed. That their worlds haven't tipped on their axes with the weight of discovery.

John comes home from the surgery a few days later to find Sherlock pacing the living room while muttering to himself. John can't quite make out the words, but he stands in the doorway for an extra few seconds anyway, entranced by the sight of his brilliant friend at work.

When John moves again, it throws Sherlock off kilter and he runs in to the coffee table, arms flailing and heart racing in fear of the fall. But it doesn't come, because John grabs hold of him tight and pulls him back to his feet before any harm can come to him.

John turns him slightly so that they're facing each other, reflexively assessing him to make sure that he is uninjured. John's hands are still on his arms, and Sherlock's racing heart has nothing to do with a literal fall, but a different kind of one altogether.

John looks up in to his eyes and can't bring himself to look away, much less step back from the other man.

"Okay?" John asks quietly, not entirely certain he means strictly physically.

Sherlock shakes his head honestly, "No."

John grows concerned again, "Are you hurt?" he moves back slightly to look at Sherlock's legs, but the younger man merely shakes his head again, stronger this time.

Sherlock strives for a reason not to tell him the truth, he really does, but he knows he can't continue like this. This turmoil inside of himself keeps bubbling up and he thinks he's likely to explode if he doesn't give it some of the release that it demands of him.

"I find myself…" he begins, but fumbles for the proper words, growing frustrated as they continue to escape him. "I want…" he growls, but is unable to finish that statement, either.

"What?" John asks gently, hopefully, "What do you want?"

And the look in John's eyes - a combination of guarded hope and immense adoration - leaves no option but the truth.

"You," he whispers, eyes flitting quickly from his mouth back to his eyes, "You're all I've ever wanted."

John's hands move to frame the slightly taller man's face, "You stupid, _stupid_ man," he pulls him down for a gentle but insistent kiss before continuing, "that's all you ever needed to say and I am yours."

While Sherlock remains stunned, John draws his face down to his once more for a much deeper kiss than the first. He smiles against Sherlock's lips as he begins to respond in earnest, because if there's one person John truly knows, inside and out, it's Sherlock.

And Sherlock? Well, he's got the rest of their lives to catch up.

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 **A/N:** Thank you for taking the time to read this; I hope it was even a little bit enjoyable for you.

As always, I'd love to hear your feedback via comment, kudos, or constructive criticism!

Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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